In Flight
by MsBarrows
Summary: Modern Day AU, the DAO through DA2 characters are passengers and crew on a trans-Atlantic hop on Hawke Airways. Shennanigans will ensue! Birthday fic for combination-nc - rated M for probable saucy bits.
1. Boarding

**Writing this as a (somewhat belated now) birthday present for one of my Tumblr friends, combination-nc. You can read her writings here on ffnet as well - check my favourite authors list for the link to her profile. She's also the fiendish mind behind the Character Exploration Alphabet meme, and has done a lovely alphabet about Karl Thekla and is now working on a matching Anders alphabet. And a Ser Pounce-A-Lot one!**

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Isabela could tell it was going to be a turbulent flight, even with them still pulled up at the terminal and loading. While she kept a professional smile on her face, mentally she was cursing; she wasn't even supposed to be on this flight. She was _supposed_ to be on vacation this week. But with several air hosts down with a flu that had been going around, Hawke Airways had found itself unexpectedly short-staffed; early this morning management had offered her overtime pay for her to cut short her vacation and help out. Considering management had been tucked up in bed beside her at the time, giving her _that look_ of his out of big brown eyes, she'd found it impossible to say no. And so here she was, eyeing the passengers boarding for a lengthy trans-Atlantic flight, and really, really wishing she'd told him no after all, rolled over, and gone back to sleep for a while before enjoying the remainder of her well-earned vacation.

She ran a practised eye over the rear section, where she currently was; tourist class, though on Hawke Airways, which flew only small jets catering almost exclusively to executive business travellers, even their tourist seating was as good – and as expensive – as business class on any of the major airlines. Only a dozen seats, and all but one were booked today.

The four seats at the back were taken by a middle-aged couple with twin infants, the red-haired and freckled wife currently stowing the cooler that was likely holding milk for the two. Her husband, a gruff-looking man with bushy mutton-chop whiskers, was making sure the infants were securely fastened in the baby carriers strapped into the pair of seats between him and his wife.

The four seats in front of them were occupied by a group of men, who Isabela thought were some sort of military men, judging by their physique and bearing, and matching heavy-duty carry-on luggage. The leader of the group was middle-aged and had swept-back short brownish-blond hair, light brown eyes, a short-cropped vandyke, and a harried expression. The second man had longish red hair, bright blue eyes, and a handle-bar moustache with a heavy goatee, while the third and youngest-looking member of the group had short blond hair, even brighter blue eyes, and a tiny soul patch on his chin that she thought he'd have looked better without. The final and oldest member was bald, with a full grey beard and moustache, icy blue eyes, and a disdainful expression. They were all wearing some variation on a polo shirt and khaki pants, in dull colours.

The final four seats in front of them were occupied by a pair of nuns; one elderly, with a kind face and colourless grey eyes, her grey hair pulled back in a loose bun, wisps escaping it to hang around her face. The other was younger, her blond hair cut in a short, severe style. She had a rather sour expression on her face, as if she disapproved of something. One of the remaining two seats was marked as being unbooked, and the last was marked as being reserved for an air warden, who hadn't boarded yet.

Business class seats started ahead of that, only two per row, the seats being rather wider and more widely spaced than the rear seating; they could be lowered right down flat to serve as beds for particularly lengthy flights, one of the many features that had won Hawke Airways a following among high-end travellers.

The first pair of them was occupied by a statuesque platinum blond woman with cold blue eyes, her lips currently pursed together in distaste as she glanced around the interior of the small plane. Her outfit was all of a piece; a nicely-fitted skirt suit over a satin blouse, with a leather briefcase, and high heels, which along with her long-nailed manicure and matte lipstick was all of the exact same shade of dark ruby red, a near match for the sizable stone in a pendant hanging around her neck. Her companion was more soberly dressed, in a beautifully tailored double-breasted three-piece suit in charcoal grey over a pearly grey shirt, the only touches of colour a tie the same dark red as the woman wore, along with gold cuff links and tie clip and a gold fountain pen peeking out of his pocket. He was an older man, slight of figure – he only came up a little over the woman's shoulder – and had a receding hairline, his surprisingly lengthy silver hair sweeping dramatically back from a widow's peak, giving him a rather poetic look. He had the most gorgeous almond-shaped green eyes Isabela had ever seen; a real silver fox of a man, if you liked your men mature.

Seated in front of them were a pair of passengers that Isabela knew well; they'd been regular customers of Hawke Airways since shortly after Hawke had first started the business. She stopped by their row to greet them personally, winning the usual grunt and nod of greeting from Mr Brosca – he rarely spoke to anyone save Zevran – and a wide smile and shower of compliments from Zevran.

Mr Brosca was a short, stout, heavily-tattooed man with craggy features and dark blue eyes, his black hair drawn back in a stubby braid, wearing a very plain but well-tailored outfit of a short-sleeved white shirt and black pants. Rumour had it he'd been involved with the Carta before going straight, and that they still hadn't given up trying to kill him off.

His companion and bodyguard was even more familiar to Isabela, and physically could hardly be more different than his employer; slender, golden-skinned, golden-haired, and golden-eyed, and as given to verbosity as his boss was given to silence. She'd known Zevran Arainai for years, from all the way back when she'd been young, naive, and trapped in a broken marriage.

She'd been married off at a rather young age to please her very traditionally minded mother, an arranged marriage that she'd had little say in, not even meeting her husband until a week before the ceremony. Things had not gone well, and she'd been deeply unhappy by the time she eventually met and had a fling with Zevran; he'd taught her that sex could actually be fun with the right person, and that eventually led to her divorce, and a much more pleasant single life. Her only gains from the marriage had been a real land-boat of a car she'd driven off in the day she decided to run away and file for divorce, and the cash and jewellery collection from the bedroom safe that she'd taken along with her. The car was long-since gone, totalled in a nasty crash some years before that she'd been lucky to walk away from unscathed, though she still had most of the jewellery, much of it massive pieces of more value for their antiquity and workmanship than for the gold they were made of.

She had only pleasant memories of her time with Zevran, and quite enjoyed the scandalously flirtatious manner of the man, though she had a strong suspicion he was Mr Brosca's companion in more than just name; she hadn't missed noticing the discrete pair of matching earrings the two had taken to wearing some years before, nor the amused tolerance with which Mr Brosca viewed Zevran's flirting with anything that breathed. Nor the way he could quell Zevran's more outrageous behaviour with nothing more than a well-timed throat clearing and a slight raise of one bushy eyebrow.

"I know I've told you this before, my dear," Zevran said, giving her a warmly appreciative look, "But I love that outfit on you. Hawke chose well when he went for that delicious look for your uniforms."

Isabela smiled and thanked him before moving on. She rather liked the outfit herself, a white mini-skirt dress with matching thigh-high go-go boots in shiny white vinyl, and a colourful scarf tied headband-style around her head. Hawke, she knew, claimed to be trying to appeal to the nostalgia of the hey-dey of modern air travel with the retro uniforms, though she thought it had more of a 70s disco feel to it than a 50s or 60s look. Her own belief was that he just enjoyed oogling female air hosts in skimpy little outfits. Though he did have the male air hosts wearing a similarly retro getup, of white flared pants and open-front short-sleeved white shirts, and a scarf knotted around their neck.

Seated by himself in front of them was a familiar figure, another frequent passenger, Dr Anders Tjäder, though he preferred being called by his first name, saying it was far easily for most people to remember and get right on the first try than Tjäder was. He wasn't wearing his usual dark blue suit, and was dressed instead in grey slacks and a cream-coloured Arran sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

"Taking some vacation time, Dr Anders?" she asked with a welcoming smile.

"Yes," he said, sounding faintly surprised. "How'd you guess?" he asked, then glanced down at himself. "Oh, wait... never mind. I think I just figured it out," he said, and grinned affably at her before she moved on to the next seat.

Isabela moved on to check on the next row of seats, the first of the executive class seating. The seats were much the same as the business class ones, but had swivelling bases that allowed a wider range of seat positions, and a work-surface shared by each pair of seats, complete with electrical plug-ins and adjustable task lights so that the passengers could work in comfort even during flight. There was also a blackout curtain that could be drawn closed around each pair of seats for greater privacy when sleeping.

She had to smile as she took in the first pair seated there; they'd never flown Hawke Airways before, at least not that _she'd_ ever heard of, but they were instantly recognizable to anyone interested in music. Saemus Dumar, wearing tight black leather pants and a loose tunic of slubbed silk only a couple of shades darker than his infamous brilliant turquoise eyes. He smiled sweetly up at her for a moment, then turned back to his companion, a huge man with skin even darker than Isabela's and a mass of waist-long skinny dreadlocks caught back with a leather thong. Ashaad, Saemus' songwriting partner and the man who'd reportedly discovered the youth and nurtured his talent. They had several sheets of music spread out on the work-surface between them, clearly busy working on something.

Given Saemus and Ashaad's presence on the plane, she supposed she shouldn't have been entirely surprised to see who was occupying the next two rows, the front pair of seats having been turned around to face the back pair. The head of Viddathari Studios himself, Mr Aris Shaw, and two of his bodyguards. He was neatly dressed in a blue-grey silk suit over a burgundy shirt, his long silky white hair flowing smoothly down over his shoulders. He was reading over a folder full of documents, a laptop open before him. He was even larger than his two extra-large-sizable bodyguards, who had the same white hair as he did, except drawn back in tight cornrow braids. They all looked much alike – Aris, his bodyguards, and Ashaad as well, for that matter – distant cousins all of them, supposedly, Mr Shaw liking to keep as much of his business as he could within his own family. His family apparently ran to tall and broad-shouldered, with Aris the largest of the bunch, the prematurely white hair shared by most of them a family trait.

Mr Shaw's business interests were much more extensive than just the music studio, of course; that was just one of several businesses under the Qunari Industries umbrella, though also the one he was reportedly most directly managing at present. He'd even briefly been a rival of Hawke's, until he'd decided to divest himself of his own luxury airline business in the aftermath of a rather nasty price-war between the two.

"Mr Shaw, a pleasure to have you travelling with us today," she said, smiling warmly at the man, whom she'd met socially once or twice in the past.

He looked up at her, face inscrutable for a moment, then snorted and smiled slightly and spoke, his voice a pleasantly deep rumble. "Isabela. How many times must I ask you to call me Aris before you'll actually remember to do so?"

"As many times as I remind her not to be too casual with the paying customers," a familiar voice said from behind Isabela, making her start, and turn her head to see Hawke standing right behind her, apparently having just boarded the plane. "Hello Aris. Good to see you," he said, smiling toothily at the much larger man. "Headed for the big music festival in England? I hear your boy Saemus is performing," he added, nodding to the pair nearby.

Saemus looked up at his name, eyes blank for a moment, then he suddenly leapt to his feet, a broad smile on his face. "_Hawke!_" he exclaimed, with every evidence of delight. He looked like his first impulse was to hug Hawke, but he settled for grabbing one of Hawke's hands in both of his, and shaking it enthusiastically, holding on to it when he was done.

Isabela felt her eyebrows rising at Saemus' excited greeting; she hadn't been aware that Hawke knew Aris' young protege at all, much less well enough to inspire that sort of enthusiasm. Ashaad rose to his feet as well, towering over both men, and put one hand on Saemus' shoulder, leaning down to murmur something in the excited youth's ear. Whatever he said made Saemus release Hawke's hand and calm down again. Saemus glanced up at Ashaad for a moment, giving him a brief smile, then turned back to smile apologetically at Hawke, flushing with embarrassment. With his pale skin and tousled black hair, the slight blush made him look adorably endearing, Isabela found herself thinking.

"Sorry," Saemus said. "I was just so surprised to see you!"

Hawke smiled kindly at the young man. "That's fine. It has been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yes! Are you going to London as well?" Saemus asked hopefully.

"No, I'm afraid not... I'm continuing on to a business conference in Italy."

"Oh! Aris is going to that one as well, I think," Saemus exclaimed, then looked back and forth between the two businessmen, taking in the very pointedly _patient_ way Aris was looking at him. "Oh, um... I should get back to work... sorry for interrupting," he said, and resumed his seat, looking momentarily abashed.

Aris smiled very faintly, watching as Ashaad drew Saemus' attention back to what they'd been working on before the youth had been distracted. He clasped his hands neatly together over his stomach, then looked up at Hawke, and spoke calmly. "As Saemus just revealed, I am not in fact headed for the music festival at this time, though if my business in Italy is finished with early enough, I hope to return in time to attend the last day's performances."

Hawke smiled widely "Much like my own plans. Perhaps I'll see you either there or in Italy. Well, I should stop blocking the aisle and move on to my seat. Isabela, if you would..."

She smiled and nodded at Hawke, and smiled a second time at Mr Shaw as he nodded politely to her before turning his attention back to the folder of papers he'd been reading. She led Hawke forward past a couple of empty rows to his seat, just back of the cockpit area. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to be on this flight?" she asked quietly, keeping her voice low enough not to be overheard.

Hawke grinned for a moment. "Wasn't sure I could clear my desk in time to make this flight, or if I'd have to take the next one out. Didn't want to disappoint you if I couldn't make it," he explained softly. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to spend your layover in Italy with me? I've got a suite booked, and I want to make up for spoiling your vacation."

Isabela studied him a moment, then let her expression briefly lapse out of her professional smile and into a real one. "I suppose I'll say yes," she agreed, and felt a pang at the look of genuine pleasure that lit his face. She still wasn't entirely comfortable with how attached to her he seemed, and had already had to twice deflect feelers from him about whether or not she'd be open to marrying him, a prospect that scared her far more than it interested her. And yet, she _did_ care for him... but this was not the time to be thinking of that.

"Well, I should finish my rounds," she told him lightly, giving him her professional smile, and then continued further forward, into the cockpit.

The co-pilot looked up from his checklist as she entered, and smiled warmly at her. "Isabela. I'd heard you were coming off vacation to help with this flight," he said.

"Sebastian," she said, smiling and nodding at him, then at the pilot as he looked around too. "Carver. Word to the wise, the boss-man is flying today."

Carver grimaced; there was little love lost between himself and his older brother. Garrett was the family success story, the apple of their mother's eye. Carver was the younger tag-a-long, always a few steps behind his brother and constantly overshadowed by him. He'd briefly had an advantage over Garrett, as the better pilot of the pair, but then Garrett had started his own airline and soon turned it from a single family-run company – Carver essentially blackmailed by their mother into helping out with it, leaving a good job with a major airline to work as a pilot for the fledgling business – into the start of a profitable business empire. Garrett had the instincts to be a tycoon; Carver didn't. He'd be well-off some day – their mother had invested what she had in Garrett's business, and reinvested her profits as he expanded, and she'd done very well by it over the years; Carver and Bethany would inherit her not-insubstantial wealth eventually – but for now he was merely a hireling in his brother's employ.

"Bethany's on this flight too," Carver told her.

"_Really!_ I thought she was still off at that fancy school Hawke shipped her off to three years ago?" she said, surprised.

Carver smiled. "Graduated already. Accelerated program. She's at loose ends at the moment and heard we were short-handed, so she offered her services. She's in back making sure everything is aboard for the flight."

"Wonderful! I'll have to go say hello to her," Isabela said, and grimaced. "If this is like most flights, we'll have precious little time to talk once we're in the air. I'll see you two later," she added, then headed back out into the main cabin.

Hawke was busy with something on a laptop as she walked back past his seat, and nodded distractedly at her in passing. The pair of seats behind him were taken now, by a tiny woman with short black hair and big green eyes, peering into a large hand-mirror as she fixed her makeup, and a taller woman with equally black hair pulled back in an untidy bun, a brown-haired toddler held in her lap. Mother and child both had eyes of a surprising golden-yellow shade, giving them disconcertingly intense gazes. The pair of seats between them and Mr Shaw's party were still empty, and marked on her seating chart as not due to be filled until they stopped in Gander to take on extra fuel for the trans-Atlantic hop.

A fourth member had joined Mr Shaw's party, a lean young man who seemed to share the same prematurely white hair as they, though the resemblance ended there. He wouldn't have come up even as far as the shoulder of either of the bodyguards, much less that of Mr Shaw himself. He had large mossy green eyes half-hidden behind black-rimmed glasses, and a dark olive complexion. He was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt open at the collar, black pants, and had a slim steel briefcase open on his lap, from which he was passing papers to Mr Shaw. She could see paler marks on the skin of his neck and hands – scars or tattoos, she wasn't sure which in the brief glimpse she had as she went by.

She saw a final passenger boarding as she passed out of the executive section; an older man, with short-cropped steel-grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His outfit was rather colourful – a dark brown suit over a shirt of a pale muted green, with a burnt orange tie and handkerchief, and a brown leather briefcase. He spotted the one vacant seat and walked to the correct row, then came to an abrupt stop, gaping at his seating partner. "Anders!" he exclaimed in surprise.

Dr Tjäder looked up, then sprang to his feet, a delighted expression on his face. "Karl! Dear lord, man, how many years has it been?"

"Too many," the older man said, smiling warmly at Anders, then checked the seat number marked overhead against his boarding pass. "And it looks like we're sitting together. What a wonderful coincidence."

Isabela had reached their row by then, and helped the older man – a Dr Thekla, it turned out – to stow away his bag. She wondered if he too was a medical doctor, as Anders was, or if it was a more scholarly title. That done, she continued to the back, beyond the washrooms and into the service area, where she found Bethany just checking off the last few items on the list of what foodstuffs and so forth should have been loaded.

"Bethany!" she exclaimed, and exchanged a warm hug with the younger girl. "When Carver told me you were on this flight... I didn't believe it at first. How have you been? It's so good to see you again. He tells me you've graduated?" she asked excitedly.

Bethany smiled. "Slow down, one question at a time," she said, laughing. "Let's see – I'm fine, and I graduated with high honours last week. I only just got back home a couple of days ago, and found Hawke all in a lather about how many of his crew members were off sick already. Which has only gotten worse, as I'm sure you know."

Isabela nodded. "That it has! I _was_ supposed to be on vacation this week, until your brother talked me into working this flight. He tempted me with overtime pay," she explained, making a face, then looked suspiciously at Bethany. "And he better be paying you the same!"

Bethany grinned. "He is! Though I'd likely have been happy enough to do it at even the regular rate; there's a conference in Paris I was half-wanting to attend, and this flight gets me there for free, so I'll just have to pay admittance," she said, then changed the subject, getting them both back on track. "I've finished the checklist, we have everything we're supposed to. How's the passenger list looking?"

"Pretty good, there's a couple of familiar faces who'll be pleased to see you again, I'm sure – we've got both Zevran and Dr Anders on this flight," she said as she passed over the passenger list. "Everyone has boarded, except the air warden. It's probably Alistair – he's always boarding late."

Bethany nodded, running an eye down the list, then suddenly froze for a moment. "Oh dear. Oh my... this is going to be awkward," she said worriedly.

"What is?" Isabela asked.

"One of my teachers is on board, he's travelling to that same conference I'll bet. Professor Orsino - he was my student mentor," she said, colouring slightly as she said the name. "Which _normally _I'd be thrilled about, he's such a sweetheart, but he's travelling with the chancellor, Ms Stannard, and she and I... well, let's just say there's no love lost on either side," she finished grimly. "Horrible woman. Very controlling, and with a strong religious bias – she has decided ideas about what fields of research the professors should be looking into, and there's rumours she's used her influence to sabotage grant applications on several occasions where professors have tried to pursue lines of research that she objected to on moral grounds. Professor Orsino is one of the few who still stands up to her; she keeps him on a very short lease. She can't stifle him entirely, he and his work are too well-known for her to get away with that, and he's been a tenured professor there since before _she_ ever even arrived... but if she could get rid of him, I think she would. She calls him a disruptive element."

Isabela snorted. "Sounds like a real charmer. Well, let me know if you need any backup in dealing with her. Anything else I should know about?"

Bethany grinned. "Yes, but you need to see it for yourself. Go see Varric in cargo."

Isabela raised an eyebrow questioningly, then slipped past the other woman and headed through the small door that led back toward the cargo space. If Varric was aboard, that meant live cargo of some kind; there was a small heated and pressurized hold behind the service area on the plane, which could be used for transporting animals; usually just the occasional dog or cat, though she well-remembered the time they'd carried an extremely expensive pedigree Arabian yearling over from the United Arab Emirates to a breeder in Virginia; the horse had received more attentive care than the passengers, of which there'd been very few that trip, the animal's new owner having booked the entire plane for himself, his family, and his latest acquisition.

She passed through the electrical service space, then through another door into the hold, and came to an abrupt stop, staring in shock. "An elephant!" she exclaimed in disbelief. "We have an _elephant_ on board the airplane."

"Just a baby one," Varric said in amusement as he looked up from where he was seated on a low stool, bottle-feeding the petite pachyderm. "Orphaned. It's going to a zoo in England. Anyway, it could be worse," he pointed out. "It could be snakes."

Isabela laughed and rolled her eyes. "Oh, like I've never heard _that_ one before," she said, then moved a couple of steps closer to get a better look at the baby elephant. "That's almost unbearably cute. I never knew they were hairy like that. Its head is almost as plush as your chest. Marked physical resemblance between the two of you also – both short and squat..." she trailed off, grinning at the man, who only stood a little taller than the baby elephant itself did.

"Hush, woman, or I'll have to bend you over my knee and spank you," he said, giving her a look even as he continued feeding the elephant, rubbing behind one of its floppy ears with his other hand.

"Promises, promises," she said with a smile, then sighed. "Well, small wonder Bethany said I should see for myself," she said, shaking her head. "All right. The elephant has been seen. I'd better get back to work."

Varric nodded. "See you later," he told her.


	2. In Flight Emergency

To Isabela's surprise, when Alistair finally arrived, he was in company with another man; a rather distinguished-looking older man, his black hair and neatly-trimmed beard and moustache flecked with grey. "Senior Air Warden Duncan," Alistair quickly introduced him as, flushing in an embarrassed fashion that made Isabela guess that Duncan was there to review Alistair's performance. Or that Alistair had made a particularly poor showing in some manner already, and was feeling self-conscious as a result; he was a nice man, and very competent at his job, but surprisingly easily flustered in more social situations. She saw the pair seated, then let the pilots know their full complement was on board at last and went to help Feynriel, who'd been greeting passengers as they boarded, to close and lock the door, after which he hurried to the back to take his place with Bethany.

After that it was just a case of broadcasting an announcement reminding passengers to shut down electrical devices and put away anything that was still out and loose, and buckle themselves in, followed by the plane starting its slow taxi around the airport until they reached the proper runway and took their slot in the queue for take-off. Bethany and Feynriel worked their way up the craft, making sure everything was stowed and everything properly secured, passengers and luggage both, after which they headed to their own seats back in the service area. She gave the standard emergency instructions while they taxied, then strapped herself into the little fold-down seat near the front, wishing as she always did that she had a view out of a window from it; she loved take-offs and landings, and the view as they lifted off or came in, but so rarely got to actually _see_ them.

Once they were in the air there was routine to do; getting out the snack carts, loading on the prepared bins of beverages, glasses, ice, and other supplies, working her way up the plane with Feynriel, both of them serving drinks to passengers while Bethany followed them with the second cart, distributing the post take-off snacks. She'd read somewhere once that the custom of drinks and a snack directly after take-off had a sound psychological basis in reducing travel stress by distracting the passengers with something mundane and familiar, plus eating was usually a comforting activity for most people. She didn't know if that was true or not, but she tended to believe it was; that first period of flight while people dealt with drinks and little packages of nuts, or crackers and spreadable cheese, or sealed bags of raw vegetables or fruit, always seemed to be an especially tranquil part of the flight, in mood if not in actual activity levels.

It always amused her, too, seeing the usually rather high-powered and often elegant people who flew Hawke Airways trying to deal with the rather inelegant pre-packaged snacks. Some managed it better than others; she looked around as she made her way back to her own section of seating – the executive seats at the front, which Bethany had the business section and Feynriel dealt with the tourists – and had to hide a smile as she looked everyone over.

Bethany's Professor Orsino had opened his bag of candied peanuts with a practised move and was now extracting them from the bag and eating them one by one, his long slender fingers and agile movements lending the simple act a surprising amount of grace. Ms Stannard, on the other hand, was having difficulty spreading her cheese on her crackers with the little flat piece of plastic supplied for the purpose, and was frowning in concentration, the slight vibration of the aircraft making the task much more difficult than it looked; one particularly turbulent bump had already seen her miss the cracker entirely and smear cheese on the ball of her thumb instead.

The two doctors both had tea, which they were largely ignoring as they were caught up in a conversation of their own; a conversation she couldn't understand, couched as it was in what she assumed to be Swedish, that being Dr Anders' nationality. He held dual citizenship, his parents having moved to the US when he was still a child, she knew from a long rambling conversation with him once.

Ashaad had asked for the vegetables for both himself and Saemus, and was eating his way methodically through the baby carrots and celery sticks, occasionally putting one in Saemus' hand, which the young man nibbled at distractedly while poring over another sheet of music, humming bits of it occasionally. Aris had taken only a soft drink, and his bodyguards nothing at all, while the olive-skinned young man had a glass of red wine and packet of fruit – grapes, blueberries and strawberries, this trip – which he'd dumped into a pile on a napkin and was eating one-by-one.

The young woman had taken fruit as well, and a glass of ice. She had a small collection of bottles lined up in front of her, and seemed to be methodically working her way through them, apparently determined to sample them all since they were free – not the first person she'd seen do that, and unlikely to be the last, either. Though as tiny as the woman was, Isabela did worry slightly over her ability to consume so much alcohol without becoming ill. Meanwhile the mother seated beside her was busy feeding a soft bear-paw cookie and milk in a sippy-cup to the child in her lap, and had only a glass of ginger ale herself.

Hawke, of course, had peanuts _and_ crackers _and_ vegetables _and_ fruit, as well as two glasses of beer. He also had his laptop out and open again already, and was pretty much ignoring the snacks and drinks arrayed around it as he typed away on the keyboard, a frown of concentration on his face. He often said that his office was wherever he happened to be, the only resource he really required being the brain in his head, though having a phone or computer helped. Considering the wide variety of locations she'd witnessed him successfully conduct business from – the back seats of taxis, sitting in bars, standing in a public phone booth – he'd certainly proved his point valid so far.

She hoped he'd actually have at least a little down time in Italy; not just time spent with her at night, but time for both of them to spend together during the day, without him haring off after five different things at once, and paying more attention to cutting deals and making money than to just enjoying himself. Even just a half-day of doing nothing but being together.

There was a quiet time after the carts had gone around, while people settled in, ate, drank, and watched the first of the in-flight movies – a collection of animated short films – to fill the time during the short hop to Gander. There was the occasional service call – the petite woman wanting further little bottles of different drinks to try, the young man with Mr Shaw's group wanting a refill of his wine, the mother needing a blanket for her toddler – but overall it was quiet and calm, disturbed only by the occasional slight turbulence.

She went forward after a while, checking on the pilots, collecting their coffee mugs and taking them off to get refills for the both of them, then flirted briefly with Sebastian, who smiled but otherwise made no response. He seemed such a straight arrow it was hard to believe that he'd had a rather wild youth, but she'd heard enough stories to know that his current sober, staid exterior was very different than what he'd been like before settling down and straightening up. The only notable remnants left of his misspent youth were a remarkably wide and foul vocabulary on the rare occasion when his anger got the better of him, how impossible it was to make the man blush, and, she'd heard, a pair of rather remarkable tattoos and a very nasty scar, both souvenirs of his life on the streets after running away from home.

There was just one call-light lit when she returned to the cabin, but before she could answer it, there was an outburst of noise from the back. "I'm sorry, I'll be right with you," she told the small – and still surprisingly sober – woman as she swept past her seat; not running, no, you never wanted to seem panicked and worry the passengers, but moving at as fast a walking clip as she could manage. She could see Bethany vanishing into the back as well, passenger's heads craning around to see what the commotion was.

Bethany reappeared a moment later, hurrying to Dr Anders' seat and bending low to speak quietly to him. He rose immediately to his feet, face concerned, pausing only to snatch his bag out of the overhead bin. A medical emergency of some kind then, she realized, and fell into step behind the two.

It was one of the nuns; not the older woman, who she would have guessed as the most likely to have a problem on account of her age, but the younger woman, the starchy blonde. Not so well-starched now – she was red-faced and gasping for air, her breath audibly wheezing in and out, eyes wide and panicked-looking. She had one hand raised to her throat, and even from several feet away Isabela could see that there were raised red welts – hives – forming on her hand and forearm. Alistair was holding her other hand, patting it and speaking soothingly to her, while the older air warden had risen to his feet and moved to stand out of the way, squeezed up against one of the four seats occupied by the military-looking group. Alistair glanced up at their approach, looking relieved to see the doctor, and quickly moved out of the way.

Anders squeezed past him and then dropped to one knee beside the nun. "Allergic reaction, it looks like," he said as he looked her over and reached to feel her throat.

Feynriel, who was good about keeping his head in an emergency, was already bringing the first aid kit from the back; rather larger than a home kit, it was packed away in what was essentially a small hard-sided rolling suitcase. It contained mostly basic things like band-aids, gauze pads, splints, and bandages, but also a small oxygen tank and face mask, which Feynriel quickly took out and readied for use. Isabela sent Bethany forward to let the pilots know that an emergency diversion to the nearest airport looked like it was going to be required, though as close as they were to Gander there was a good chance it would make as much sense to continue on to there rather than to attempt diverting to a smaller local airstrip without the experience with and facilities for handling medical emergencies that Gander had.

Anders was checking the woman's vital signs while questioning the older nun."Does she have any allergies? Has she ever had an allergic reaction before?"

"Just to shellfish. Sister Petrice sometimes gets hives after eating strawberries, but never anything worse than that, and she loves them so she had the fruit snack..." the older woman said, looking concernedly at her companion.

Anders nodded. "Right, that's likely it then; a minor allergy turning into a worse one. Does she have an epi-pen for her shellfish allergy?"

"I don't know..." the older nun said worriedly.

The younger nun managed a strangled gasping sound and a nod, and gestured toward her handbag, where it was stowed in the elasticized net on the bulkhead separating their row of seats from the business seating. "Someone find it," Anders ordered, busy reaching for the oxygen tank that Feynriel was still holding ready.

Isabela, being closest, pulled the handbag out and sorted through the contents, quickly locating the epi-pen cached in a handy side pocket. She passed it to Anders, who had the breathing mask adjusted over the woman's face now, and he popped off the cap and then stuck her in the outer thigh with it. "Let's hope that's got it," he said worriedly, continuing to monitor the woman's vitals as best he could.

The epi-pen did the trick; within a few minutes Sister Petrice was breathing easier, the hives beginning to fade. The overhead warning lights came on as Bethany rejoined them, as well as the electronic tone that drew attention to them. The PA system crackled into life.

"Good morning, this is your Captain speaking. We'll be beginning our approach to Gander International Airport in Newfoundland, Canada shortly. Due to an ongoing medical emergency we will be stopping at the terminal for longer than originally scheduled; at this time we do not know how long the delay will be, but will keep you advised once that information becomes available. We ask all passengers to please remain seated both now and after we reach the terminal, until emergency personnel have the situation in hand. Your air hosts will be around shortly to assist with clearing away any remaining cups, napkins and other litter. Hawke Airways apologizes for any inconvenience this delay will cause, and thanks you for your patience."

Anders having the nun's medical care well in hand now, Isabela set Bethany and Feynriel to making a clean-up pass through the craft, while she rounded up Alistair and Duncan. "Dr Anders will be needing your seats until after our landing in Gander," she said, gesturing at the man and medical bag occupying their two seats. "There are seats available further forward that I'll show you to for now; please follow me," she said. The two men nodded, and she led the way up to the pair of empty seats in the executive area, smiling calmly at the other passengers in passing.

"I think this is the first time I've ever gotten to be seated in Executive Class," Alistair remarked quietly as they walked through the business, smiling cheerfully.

Duncan smiled slightly as well. "Not a first for me, but certainly not my usual seating either," he said.

Feynriel was just finishing up on gathering empty cups and litter, she saw as they reached the forward section, smiling as he said something to the tiny woman who'd been having so many drinks. He looked up and nodded to Isabela before moving forward to clear away Hawke's litter.

"Here are your seats, gentlemen," Isabela said, gesturing to the two empty places between Mr Shaw's group and the two women. "We'll be able to move you back to your proper seats once we've landed in Gander."

"Thank you," Alistair said, giving her a warm smile.

The mother started, and craned her head to look back. "_Alistair?_" she exclaimed, going pale.

Alistair stared at her, mouth dropping open for a moment. "Morrigan," he whispered, then his eyes dropped to the toddler in her arms and got very, very wide. "Is that..." he said hesitantly, flushing.

"His child. Yes," she said, very quietly. Then glanced around at all the witnesses to their conversation – her seatmate, Isabella, Duncan – and pressed her lips together. "This is not the time or place," she said, sounding very decisive. "I'll talk to you later."

"In Gander," Alistair said, sounding almost equally firm.

She searched his face, then nodded slowly. "All right. In Gander," she agreed, and turned back forward, her arms closing protectively around her child.

Isabela wondered what that was about. By the way Duncan was eyeing Alistair as the two men silently took their seats, so did he.


	3. Alistair and Morrigan

A team of paramedics was waiting by when they pulled up to the terminal in Gander. They soon had the stricken nun transferred to a stretcher and carried off the plane, Mother Elthina following along behind. Doctor Anders temporarily disembarked as well, to speak on the phone with the doctor at the hospital that the nun was being taken to, so that the physician treating her there would know what steps he'd taken in caring for her until the paramedics had arrived.

It would take a couple of hours for the incident to be written up properly before they could depart again. The passengers were allowed to disembark if they wished, once the paramedics had gone, though they were cautioned to remain in the terminal and preferably within the waiting area itself until the plane was cleared to reload and leave. Most of them chose to leave the plane, as they could at least stretch their legs and get a snack or drink in the terminal, while all they could do on the plane itself was sit and wait.

Alistair made a flustered excuse to Duncan and hurried off the plane in Morrigan's wake, only to be stymied by her going into the woman's washroom. He had to wait outside, red-faced with embarrassment, until she finally re-emerged, leading the toddler by one hand. "_Morrigan_..." he said, and broke off, unable to continue.

"Yes, yes, I know. Come, let us find a quiet corner," she said, and led the way to a cluster of seating in a distant corner, one well away from anyone else. She sat down, the toddler dropping down to sit on the carpet by her feet with his chubby little legs outspread and one hand crammed as far into his mouth as he could manage. She dug into her capacious shoulder bag, taking out a couple of toys and passing them down to the child, who made a cooing sound of approval and promptly replaced his hand with one of them, chewing energetically on it.

"He's really Aedan's child?" Alistair asked, taking a seat and staring at the toddler.

"Yes, he's really Aedan's child," she agreed, face stiff and unhappy.

"Did you know before you...?"

"Of _course_ I knew. It's why I left," she said, and looked away for a moment, blinking rapidly. "I hadn't meant for it to happen, hadn't planned on it, but then it did... and I just couldn't stand to stay there with him any more."

Alistair swallowed thickly, a look of distress on his face. "Did he... did he even know...?"

She nodded, looking down at her hands, clasped loosely together on her knee. "He did. I told him, before I left."

"But... but _why_... god, Morrigan, I was with him to the end, until he lost to the dragon, and he never said a word about you or... or a _baby_..."

"_Don't_ say the dragon. Don't say that he _lost_, or that he passed on, or passed over, or any such foolish round-a-bout nonsense," she said sharply. "Say cancer. Say he _died_ of cancer. Because I know that's what happened. I knew even before I left that he was never going to get any better, and it was killing me to be with him, to watch him die a little more every day. He knew that; he told me to go himself. I wasn't going to, I meant to stick it out until the end, but then..." she fell silent, and gestured wordlessly at the toddler playing at her feet. "I had to start thinking of the future, and I knew it was going to be a future that wouldn't include Aedan. I made my choice then, and I've never regretted it."

Alistair went very still and very silent for a long moment, then nodded, his eyes overflowing with sudden tears. "I'm so sorry," he said.

"So am I. But I have Bryce, and I have a decent enough life, and I have my memories of him. And it's enough."

"Bryce? You named him after his father?" he asked, and laughed briefly, smiling through his tears. "He'd have liked that."

"He _did_ like that. I told him that before I left too, that if it was a boy it would be Bryce Aedan, and if it was a girl it would be Eleanor Oriana."

Alistair nodded, then drew a deep breath, and scrubbed at his face with both hands. "I'm sorry. Just... seeing you again, and the boy, it brought it all back, as if it was just yesterday and not almost two years ago," he said, and sighed, then gave her a somewhat anxious look. "Are you okay? Is there anything you and the child need?"

"No, I'm well taken care of," she said. "He left me an inheritance; Fergus' lawyers tracked me down, eventually, and made me accept it. And Fergus added on to it; said he didn't want to have his only nephew going wanting. So there's a trust fund for him, a monthly allowance for me, and a house out on the west coast for the both of us. I'm on the way to visit Fergus now. Did you hear that he'd finally remarried?"

"No, I hadn't," Alistair said, sounding surprised. "I never knew him very well to begin with, and after Aedan died..." he paused, and shrugged. "There seemed no reason to stay in contact. We move in rather different circles, among other things," he added, a slight smile twisting his lips, his essential good humour showing through.

Morrigan smiled. "Well, he did. She's nice enough, I suppose, though I get the impression it's more of a marriage of his and her father's companies than of the two of them. They're friendly enough, the pair of them, but I don't think there's much more than that between them. Anyway, Bryce and I are to stay with them at their house in Provence for a couple of weeks, so that Fergus can get to know his nephew a little better."

Alistair nodded. "Well... I'm glad to know you're all right. I worried about you, after you disappeared... I know the two of us weren't exactly friends back then, but I _am_ glad to have seen you again. And Bryce," he added, smiling down at the toddler, who'd abandoned his toys and was trying to cram both hands in his mouth now.

Morrigan smiled, then on sudden impulse dug around in her shoulder-bag and pulled out a small gold-plated case, and extracted a card from it, holding it out to him. "Here. My contact information – email me some time. Or phone, once I'm back in the States. It would be nice if Bryce could know some of his father's friends when he gets a little older – hear stories about Aedan from more than just Fergus and I," she added, a touch wistfully.

Alistair smiled warmly at her. "I'll do that," he assured her, and put it away safely in his wallet. He glanced at his watch, then smiled at her. "Can I treat you to lunch? The deli counter over there does a pretty good hamburger and shake. And we can talk a little more, until it's time to reboard."

Morrigan smiled back at him. "Certainly. I'd like that," she agreed, and began gathering up her things.


	4. The Layover Continues

"Bethany? I thought that was you I saw earlier," Professor Orsino said, smiling warmly as he rose from his seat in the lounge.

Bethany had no choice but to stop and talk to him. Not that she _minded_ having a chance to talk to Professor Orsino, but she could see a familiar bright-red leather briefcase on the chair beside his, and knew Meredith Stannard must be somewhere in the vicinity. Probably complaining loudly to some poor unfortunate about the delay, Bethany guessed. "Professor Orsino," she said, smiling back at him with equal warmth.

"I was surprised to see you on board, until I remembered you'd once mentioned that you'd started school so late because of helping with the family business. I take it Hawke Airways is that business?"

"Yes," she said, "As well as quite a few other ventures now, but the airline is where it all started. My brother Garrett is the Hawke in Hawke Enterprises. You're heading to the conference in Paris, aren't you?" she asked, changing the subject.

He smiled slightly and nodded. "Yes. I'm presenting a paper there. Will you be attending, by any chance?"

"Yes – I'm only working this flight as far as Paris. I wouldn't be able to afford to go without the free air travel there and back again."

Orsino's eyebrows rose somewhat. "Even though your brother is Hawke Enterprises?"

"I prefer making my own way," Bethany said, wrinkling her nose slightly. "I did let him help with the cost of my schooling, and it certainly doesn't hurt to know he's there as a safety net if I ever need real help, but it's so much easier to tell Garrett _no_ when he doesn't control my allowance. I like living my own life, and being responsible for myself."

Orsino smiled and nodded. "As do we all, I'm sure," he said, then his eyes moved to look beyond her. "Ah. And here comes Ms Stannard – a pleasure seeing you again, Miss Hawke, and I hope we'll have a chance to converse further at the conference," he said, and gave her a nicely old-fashioned bow.

Bethany grinned, thankful for his warning, and hurried on her way before Meredith could arrive. She was almost at the crew lounge when Isabela fell into step with her, a wide grin on her face. "He's quite the silver fox, your Professor Orsino," she observed.

Bethany flushed. "He's not _my_ Professor Orsino. Certainly not in the way you mean, anyway!"

"Oh? And are you sure you know just how I mean it, kitten?" Isabela asked teasingly, then laughed. "Now don't play all coy with _me_. Your brother may still think you're a sweet clueless innocent, but he's got big brother blinders on. Come on, confess... if Professor Orsino ever gave even a hint that he was open to it, you'd happily let him eat crackers in your bed _any_ day."

Bethany tried to keep a straight face, her gaze determinedly on the hallway in front of them, but then glanced at Isabela, and the expression on her friend's face made her grin and laugh. "All right, _yes_, if he seemed open to it. Unfortunately... well, I suspect Feynriel is more his type, to be honest."

"Oh dear... what a pity. And here I was already planning how to run interference on that bitch in scarlet for you. You're sure you don't need a wingman?"

Bethany laughed, then linked her arm with Isabela's. "Maybe not right now, but if I ever need one, I _promise_ that you'll be the first on my list," she told the other woman, then changed the subject. "So how are things with you and my brother lately?"

"Oh, well enough. I'll be stopping over in Italy with him."

Bethany frowned and glanced sideways at Isabela. "Is he still pressuring you to marry him?"

"Not so much _pressuring_ as... well, he drops the occasional hint. I don't know, maybe I _should_ marry him. It's not that I dislike him or anything like that, it's just..." she sighed, and shrugged. "I don't like being tied down."

Bethany nodded. She'd heard enough about Isabela's past, during late-night confidences in crew hostels back before she'd headed off to school, to know why Isabela wasn't a fan of marriage. She sometimes wished Hawke wasn't so old-fashioned in his beliefs about love and marriage; he just didn't see how his efforts to make Isabela marry him made her unhappy. Couldn't he just be happy to have her as his companion and lover? She'd sometimes thought of talking to him about it, but as his sister – especially his _younger_ sister, whom he persisted in thinking of as the baby of the family even though she and Carver were twins and he _certainly_ didn't treat Carver like a child – she knew it would be awkward. And Isabela could handle herself pretty well, she knew, and had decided to keep well out of it instead.

Though if he ever did manage to drive Isabela away, she was going to mad at him. _That_ she was pretty certain of, her and Isabela having been as close as sisters since even before Hawke had started dating her.

And in the meantime they'd reached the crew lounge at last, and could just sit down together and talk until the unscheduled layover ended. Hopefully the remainder of the flight wouldn't be anywhere near as exciting as the first leg.


	5. Coming To An Understanding

Fenris wandered the small airport for a while, taking advantage of the opportunity to stretch his legs. He hated long flights; he always felt sore and in a foul mood by the end of them. Flights like the one he was on today, when he was with a client, were the worst... he couldn't just curl up, try to nap, and ignore the lengthy confinement as much as possible. Instead he had to be aware and articulate, and maintain a friendly attitude, when all he really wanted to do by the end of a long flight was snarl at people.

He really should head back to the passenger lounge and wait there, he knew. But instead he found a quiet corner of the hallway, partially obscured by a planter full of ferns, and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes and just standing still, tuning out as much of the background noise as he could. For a few minutes he achieved a pleasantly drifting state, not quite awake, not quite asleep.

"Excuse me, sir, but are you okay?" a voice asked from very close to him, making him start back to full wakefulness, surprised that he hadn't heard any approaching footsteps. He stared blankly at the person for a moment – the steward from the plane, he realized, a very pretty young blond, with a figure that could only be described as slight, being short and slender enough to make Fenris feel large, when it was more often he that felt small. Especially around his current clients. "Sir?" the steward asked again, sounding worried.

He straightened up a little, and ran one hand down his face. "Sorry. I was just resting for a moment; I'm fine. Just tired."

"Oh. Sorry to bother you then," the steward said, looking slightly embarrassed.

Fenris found himself smiling. "No, don't apologize; it's rather nice to see someone worry about a stranger instead of just ignoring them."

The steward blushed, looking equal parts embarrassed and pleased now. "Looking after our passengers is part of my job," he said.

Fenris' smile deepened. "Not when we're not even aboard the plane, surely?" he asked, then looked around. "Has there been any word on how long we'll be here?"

"Likely another hour," the steward said. "It all depends on how long it takes to fill out all the paperwork, really. But the boss is aboard this flight and he has a talent for cutting through red tape; it might be sooner."

Fenris nodded, while studying the steward. Young – barely out of his teens, at a guess. And very good-looking. He'd always preferred tall and dark-haired, but found himself thinking that there was something to be said for small and blond as well. At least when it was being said about someone as good-looking as this steward was – too pretty to be called handsome, with his long hair caught back in a ponytail and those almost startlingly pale gold eyes. Very pale skin too, a fine golden-ivory complexion that only seemed dark in contrast to his crisp white uniform, the retro-patterned blue-green scarf knotted around his neck the only touch of colour about him that wasn't gold or white.

He was both mildly startled and rather pleased to realize the steward was eyeing him back. He lifted an eyebrow slightly, then smiled as the steward blushed and looked away. He straightened up, taking a step closer to the man, enjoying the unusual feeling of being noticeably taller than someone else for once. "Like what you see?" he asked, voice low and soft, just barely above a whisper. "_I_ certainly do," he added, flicking his gaze from head to toe and back again over the young man.

The blush deepened, a pleasant rosy tint, eyes meeting his eyes steadily for a beat before looking away again. "I'm not supposed to flirt with passengers," he said.

Fenris' smile widened. "That's an evasion. Though I think I'll take it as a _yes_, since flirting was the first thing that came to mind for you."

The steward's blush deepened even further, and then he suddenly smiled, just a flash of a mischievous grin before he managed to compose his face again. "Do you often hit on complete strangers?" he asked, a mildly scolding tone in his voice.

Fenris smiled, and stepped away, leaning back against the wall again. "No. Believe it or not, this is a first for me. What's your name, if you don't mind my asking? I'm Fenris."

"Feynriel," the steward answered, and tilted his head to one side, thoughtfully. "Do you often get hit on by complete strangers?"

Fenris grinned. "Yes."

"Which would be why this is a first for you?" Feynriel asked, voice equal parts suspicious and amused.

Fenris laughed. "Yes," he admitted, and smiled warmly at the young man. "You are very beautiful, you know. I begin to understand what motivates people to approach me. And merely hope you don't find my interest as... distasteful... as I sometimes find the interest others show in me."

Feynriel swallowed and licked his lips, taking a half-step closer to Fenris, close enough that the man had to tilt his head back to look up at him and meet his eyes. "No. Not distasteful at all," he said softly.

"Oh, good..." Fenris whispered, and leaned forward, slowly, keeping his hands carefully to himself. Feynriel's eyes widened slightly, but he made no move to avoid the kiss; in fact he tilted his head just slightly to one side, eyes half-closing just before their lips brushed together. _Warm and soft_, was Fenris' first thought. Followed swiftly by the thought that he was glad the corner he'd picked to rest in was so private; the kiss was quickly turning from tentative to heated, Feynriel's mouth opening invitingly, an invitation Fenris had no hesitation about accepting. His hands lifted, settling on either side of Feynriel's waist, just above the hips. Surprisingly firm muscle there, under the silky white satin shirt. Firm muscle elsewhere, too, he was pleased to note as Feynriel moved closer to him, pressing himself against Fenris' thigh.

Feynriel's left hand lifted and came to rest against Fenris' side as well, right hand rising to cup almost delicately against his cheek. He was a very good kisser, Fenris thought, letting his own mouth open and be explored. Speaking of exploring... he slid one hand up and toward the centre-line of Feynriel's torso, toward that invitingly open shirtfront. He hesitated, fingertips resting on the placket, and drew his head back enough to end the kiss, studying Feynriel's face. Flushed and smiling, his eyes just slightly dilated. Happy-looking, too. "May I?" Fenris asked, twitching the edge of cloth to make clear his intent, aware of how husky his own voice was.

Feynriel nodded. "Yes," he breathed out.

Fenris leaned back in for another kiss as his fingers slipped inside Feynriel's shirt, touching warm bare skin. He let his hand rest there for a moment, before sliding slowly upwards and outwards, across the trembling skin of Feynriel's stomach and up to harder planes of muscle, feeling the skin pebbling under his fingers as they reached and circled the other man's nipple. Heard and felt Feynriel moan softly into his mouth at the sensation, their hips pressing more tightly against each other. He didn't know how much further they could have gone than that, mostly hidden in a corner of a currently deserted hallway as they were, but he didn't have a chance to find out; a beeper went off, making them both jump and flinch apart.

"Damn, that's me..." Feynriel said, hurriedly reaching with visibly shaking hands for the little black box clipped to his belt. He looked back up at Fenris, flushing and looking apologetic. "We'll be boarding shortly – that's the signal for me to get back to my station. Sorry."

Fenris smiled. "I'm not. Sorry, that is. Disappointed, yes."

Feynriel grinned. "I'm not in the least sorry either," he admitted, and darted forward, giving Fenris a very hurried but very sweet peck on the cheek. "See you on board."

Fenris' smile widened. "Yes. And perhaps at the far end? Where, I note, I will no longer be your passenger?" he suggested, eyebrow lifting questioningly.

Feynriel's blush deepened, but he smiled back. "Maybe," he said, then turned and hurried off, re-tucking the cross-over of his open shirt into his waistband.

Fenris grinned, and leaned back against the wall, watching him go. Well. This was certainly looking like it was going to be a much more enjoyable flight that he'd thought. He waited a minute or two to give the ache in his loins time to subside – and Feynriel to get a discrete distance away – before he straightened up and headed back to the passenger lounge himself.


End file.
